Leroya

Ever since Leroya had come to the Red Keep, the training yard had been full of warriors.

To ensure their safe travels to and from the city, the nobles had all brought retinues of sworn swords, knights, and sellswords. Many congregated at the yards whilst they ate, japed, drank, and trained.

The day after she sailed to King's Landing, Leroya went to the yard with Baalun and a dozen of her crew. Many men in attendance looked at her with unfriendly expressions, but none of them dared speak out. They saw the Valyrian steel sword by her side, the goldenheart bow in her hand, and the scars which stood out on her dark brown skin.

Graeme of the Sheepshead Hills, who'd also gone there, was the first to welcome her. He stepped forward and gave a respectful nod. "Well met again, Captain."

Leroya returned the nod. "And to you."

Baalun, who stood beside her, grinned as he patted Graeme on the shoulder. "Are you here to practice your aim or your arm?"

"My sword arm. I'm no archer," Graeme answered stiffly. He did not return Baalun's cordiality; it was clear to Leroya that his courtesy was done out of duty rather than affection. He had been much the same on the voyage to King's Landing. How would you speak to us, Leroya wondered, if there was no debt hanging over your head? Or would you speak to us at all?

She had little time for such a man as this. Without further ado, she led her companions to the archery butts.

The butts were arranged right alongside the length of the castle walls. Leroya judged the distance to be 100 metres.

A large number of archers were already gathered at one end, each awaiting their turn to shoot. Leroya grunted as she leaned against the castle wall.

"Each man has three shots at a time," Baalun explained after a swift inquiry.

"Mayhaps we can try again later," Xalonyay suggested. "Or we can practice with swords instead."

"I remember you."

Leroya looked to her right. The young archer who'd spoken was relatively short of stature and lean of build. He was dressed in fine leathers, right down to the warm-looking gloves on his hands. Wisps of fine hair covered his cheeks as he brandished a tall longbow made of yew. The short hair on his head was a fiery orange colour, and there was a jagged bolt of purple lightning painted on his sleeves.

Those signs alone were enough to distinguish him as a fellow Dondarrion, but Leroya also thought that aside from his more vivid hair colour, he was the spitting image of Lord Geraint. Right down to the same sort of scowl across his lantern jaw.

"Cousin," she drawled, straightening herself so that she towered over the young man. "I remember your father's welcome yesterday."

The young man's lip curled beneath his gray-flecked beard, but then his eyes widened. "Why do you call me cousin?"

As Baalun guffawed, Leroya folded her brawny arms. "Must I have red-gold hair for you to see the family resemblance?"

"Wait…" he stared in surprise. "You're Titus Dondarrion's daughter?"

"Clever boy," Leroya mocked. "And you are?"

The archer grimaced. "Armond Dondarrion, heir to Blackhaven."

Leroya faltered. She recalled that name from Papa's stories. She also knew that her aunt, the late Lady Cassana, had had far greater cause to think highly of their father. All the same, she boggled at anyone taking pride in such a grandfather as hers.

Young Armond, meanwhile, seemed to think her hesitation was his doing. "That's right, wench. I'm the heir to our house. You and your father both owe me obeisance!"

Leroya did not laugh. She strode forward so that she towered over her cousin. "You will speak of my father with respect, else I'll teach you some manners."

She spoke those words loud enough for Armond's lackeys to hear. As she expected, they stared at her and made low noises of surprise and indignation.

Armond, meanwhile, was flushed in the face. "I ought to thrash you for those words alone!"

"I'll gladly see you try!"

Both Armond and Leroya turned to see who spoke.

While most men within earshot were standing by silently, one group was unashamed to express their amusement. They were ragged-looking men wearing mail and leather. Their hair was unkempt, their laughter was loud, and Leroya could almost smell the sea salt emanating from their forms. Ironborn.

One man stood out from the others, for he alone wore a sigil on his clothing. Emblazoned on his front was a square field of light blue which had almost completely faded away. A grey scythe was also discernible, despite half of it having disappeared due to wear and tear. He was a burly man, with greying black hair and a face which had been tanned by the sun.

"You stay out of this," Armond blustered. "And clear off, or I'll deal with you after I put my cousin in her place."

"You don't know who she is, do you?" Another ironman declared. "That's Captain Leroya Dondarrion herself."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Armond asked suspiciously.

"You'd know if you ever spent a day on the docks," the first speaker jeered. "She's made a name for herself at every major port on the Narrow Sea. She's earned more scars with the iron price than you've had pimples on your face!"

Armond was nearly purple with wrath. "What sort of man are you to speak to me in that way?"

"Fastulf Harlaw," came the prompt reply. "Master of Harridan Hill."

Much as Leroya appreciated the endorsement of such accomplished seamen as the ironborn, it only aroused contempt in Armond Dondarrion.

"This yard is for knights," he growled as he glared at Leroya again, "not pirates."

What sort of brazen bravado is this supposed to be? Leroya smiled. "Since when did knights shy away from a challenge?"

"I'll not have my courage questioned by the likes of you," Armond shouted. A few of his lackeys put hands on their sword-hilts.

"Well, here we are," Leroya mused. "This is your training yard, no? If you were going to have a fair fight, this looks like the place. How good of an archer are you?"

Armond puffed his chest. "We've been here all of three weeks, and there's not been a single man who can outshoot me."

"Good," Leroya declared with a grin, "then mayhaps you'll be a worthy challenge."

Fastulf Harlaw applauded his hands. "I smell a wager!"

His fellow ironmen took up the chant. "A wager! A wager!"

Leroya nodded her head towards them before turning back to Armond. "I won't oppose a friendly bet. How about two gold dragons to the winner?"

It was not an insufficient amount. She didn't doubt that it was a month's wages for some of the men who were in attendance.

Young Armond, meanwhile, confidently stepped forward and held out his hand. Leroya did not hesitate to clasp it.

It was judged that each would fire three arrows, and the final score would determine the winner.

Armond and Leroya stood side-by-side before the targets, even as spectators made their own little bets regarding the match. As Armond waited for another man to prepare his bow, Leroya handed hers to Baalun before declaring. "I will also use your longbow, cousin."

"What?" Armond laughed in astonishment. "Do you not trust your own weapon?"

"I trust that men will claim I cheated," Leroya countered. "And I trust that I will beat you with your own weapon. Unless you don't trust your own skills to win the day."

Fastulf Harlaw chortled at that, as did his fellow ironmen. Even a few of the others were beginning to side with Leroya.

Fuming, Armond seized the longbow and stomped over to the mark.

As he loosed his three shafts, Leroya took careful measure of the wind whilst staring at the large targets on the other end. Each one had rings painted in four colours, with a yellow circle in the centre. As had been arranged, both Xalonyay and one of Armond's household knights stood by at the other end to determine each archer's score together.

To give Armond credit, he was not wasteful or careless. All three of his arrows struck the yellow circle. When the judges returned the arrows, Xalonyay declared that he'd scored twenty-eight points.

As his supporters cheered, Armond handed his longbow to Leroya with a smug expression. She paid him no heed as she accepted the weapon.

It was a well-crafted longbow, Leroya thought as she hefted it. Not as big as her own, but that was no matter. She stepped forward and nocked her first arrow. Her breathing was slow and deliberate.

She could hear the words of her father and Ntombi inside her head. She had learned to launch arrows from a ship as it coursed through rough water. Archery on dry land was child's play compared to that, but she still needed to be mindful.

One by one, Leroya's arrows flew towards the target and landed with dull thuds that were almost inaudible. All went quiet as they watched the two judges hasten to the target and make their judgment.

Xalonyay handed Leroya's arrows back to her, even as Armond's knight made the ruling.

"Twenty-eight."

Men murmured amongst themselves, frustrated by the draw. Leroya was disappointed too, but hid such feelings as she turned to Armond. "Well then, I suppose we both keep our money."

"Rubbish," Armond objected. "We will use your weapon next!"

Smiling inwardly, Leroya gave a shrug. "As you wish." With that, she took her goldenheart longbow back from Baalun and strung it. "Would you like to go first again?"

Wordlessly, Armond took the proffered longbow and stepped forward. Nocking the first arrow to the strong, Armond prepared to draw.

As Leroya had expected, Armond was not used to the strength which a goldenheart longbow demanded. He gave a surprised grunt as his arm faltered. Men sniggered as he continued to struggle to draw the arrow back to his ear.

Fastulf Harlaw was the foremost of those who were tickled by Armond's plight. "Ain't no arrow which flies truer nor further nor harder than from a bow of the Summer Isles," he declared loudly, evoking an old seaman's proverb. Ships from the Summer Isles were among the deadliest ships on the high seas, with their archer troops being a prime reason.

"I suppose it's also got to be a Summer Islander who's got to do the loosing," quipped a grey-bearded ironman.

Leroya restrained her own amusement. It was rewarding enough to see Armond brought down by his own folly.

Still, his arrows did at least hit the target. Leroya was impressed to see them all hit within the two inner rings. The two judges reported that he'd achieved twenty-one points.

That did little to comfort young Armond, of course. She could almost hear his teeth grinding as he stomped back and thrust the longbow towards her.

Leroya did not draw out his humiliation. He would draw enough humiliation from her success, and her courtesy would cheat him of self-righteous anger.

Her arrows flew straight and true, thudding within the yellow circle as she'd done before.

"Twenty-nine," Xalonyay announced proudly.

Scattered cheers broke out amongst those in attendance. Fastulf stepped forward and clapped Leroya on the back. "Well done!"

Leroya smiled at him before turning to her cousin.

Stone-faced, young Armond signaled to one of the assembled knights. He provided the two gold dragons and handed them to Leroya.

That is discourteous, Leroya thought. Both to me and to this knight. A proper man would pay his own debts, from his own hand.

"Take heart, coz," she proclaimed loudly, grinning as she leaned towards Armond. "You can still say that no man has ever outshot you."

That proved too much for Armond. Whipping around, he stormed off without another word.

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Thus it came to pass that the ironmen became regular companions to Leroya and her crew. They were often invited as guests aboard each other's ships, and Leroya often shared a bed with one or more ironmen.

The first was Fastulf Harlaw. He proved a vigorous man, though unimaginative in his methods. Still, Leroya liked him well enough; he also introduced her to his brother, Lord Horik, who proved a more interesting lover. Baalun, meanwhile, drew the eye of Horik's daughter, a wiry young woman called Lartha.

Leroya was accustomed to ironmen; she'd had to fight reavers who tried their luck against her ship, and she had also taken them as lovers in half a dozen different ports on the Narrow Sea. They were, as she sometimes liked to describe them, an acquired taste. As a rule, ironmen were uncouth and brutish, but that sometimes made for wild nights and good stories. It didn't hurt that these ironborn, for the most part, admired her strength and reputation.

Her affiliation with the ironborn was also useful to her family, for they were willing to speak with her on the matters of council and succession between their wilder activities.

"Vaella is a good choice," Horik observed one evening as he entertained Leroya and several of her crew on his longship, the Sea Reaper. "Maegor will suit our purposes too. Either one will be as weak as Aerys was."

Leroya, who'd been watching Xalonyay and Horik's helmsman go hand-in-hand below deck, turned her attention back to Horik. "They will be weak, but Bloodraven isn't. If Maegor becomes king, Bloodraven will be the king in all but name."

"True," Horik allowed. He might have gone on, but a finger dance held near him finished at that moment with one of his men losing a finger. After Horik flinched to avoid the flying appendage, he turned back to Leroya. "But you forget that Bloodraven's eye is fixed on Essos, where the Blackfyres brood." He chuckled as he picked at a plate of salted mackerel. "Lord Hakon is desperate for the days of his father."

Dagon Greyjoy. Leroya had heard plenty of stories about him over the last few days. He was known as the Last Reaver, for he had been able to launch raids against the North and Westerlands alike during the reign of King Aerys. His son, Hakon Greyjoy, had been too young to take part in those raids, much to his eternal shame and disappointment.

"Why didn't Hakon come to the Great Council?" Leroya asked.

"He has little time for greenlanders," Horik replied. "Why should he? Life will go on for us much the same as it always has. The sky and the sea will . For what is dead may never die."

"But rises again harder and stronger," answered Torwyk, an ironman who sat close to Leroya.

Leroya shook her head. She knew more than enough about the Drowned God by then. "What a strange custom you ironmen have," she exclaimed. "You worship your own misery instead of happiness and love."

"Spoken like a damned greenlander," drawled Uric, an ill-disposed man with stumps on his left hand instead of fingers.

"Westerosi are just as bad as you lot," Leroya retorted hotly. "Women of this land must deny their fun and the men learn to hate and desire them in equal parts. The Summer Isles are where men and women understand how life ought to be led."

"No doubt," Fastulf chuckled. "Would that all our lands were so bountiful as yours. If you had grown up on the Iron Islands, you would not be this way."

"My father was a Westerosi once," Leroya countered. "He opened his eyes to better ways. He is not ashamed to speak of that."

"Is he ashamed that his daughter is the biggest slut in the city?"

"Peace, Uric," warned Horik. Leroya could sense that, like Graeme, he spoke more out of obligation than true support. He will never admit it to my face, she thought, but he agrees with that sentiment. The other ironmen looked uneasy, but nobody denounced Uric's words.

Those of Leroya's crewmen which remained on deck had gone quiet; Leroya could feel their gaze upon her as they waited for her reaction.

Leroya might have been angry at such rank hypocrisy and judgmental scorn if she'd been younger. The stories Papa had told her, the memory of seeing her parents being derided and insulted… she had been angry for a long time. But although her stomach still soured with rancour, she knew better now. She had gotten to know these men, as well as the women in their lives. She hadn't told them about the tryst she'd had with Lord Stonetree's wife whilst her husband had been visiting a brothel. She had once walked in on Horik's daughter Lartha, kneeling on the wooden floor of Baalun's cabin before Baalun, moaning with delight as she worshiped his manhood.

She knew full well that Horik would have killed her brother if he'd been the one to see such a sight. If it had been Leroya, kneeling so subserviently before his son, stuffing his cock down her throat, he would likely have laughed and applauded his son later.

Such things had been easier to ignore when the truth wasn't being spoken aloud. Now, she was growing tired of these men, as she always inevitably did when her itch had been thoroughly scratched.

Without so much as a glance at her crew members, she slowly stood up. Uric glared at her, wary of her abilities, but also defiant in his scorn for her.

"Thank you, Uric," Leroya declared cheerfully. "It is a great privilege to embrace myself as I am, and it is good to be reminded of that privilege by men such as you."

Uric snorted, even as the other ironmen exchanged glances with one another. Doubtless they had expected her to fly into a rage, but why should she? Was it an insult to these men that she lay with them? So be it. She did not regret her fun, and she would not allow this to stop her. If I change who I am, they win.

"I will take my leave, masters," she told Horik and the others. As the members of her crew got up to follow, she halted only once and glanced back at Uric. "What does it say of you, I wonder, that the biggest slut in this city still never let you fuck her?"

Fastulf begin to guffaw, and Horik turned his face away from Uric, who leapt to his feet.

"Mock me, will you?" He began to stride forward, with one hand reaching for his belt, where two hand axes had been thrust.

Leroya wasted no time. He had drunk more than she had, and his dainty pride had been pricked. Such men expected their rage to prevail, that their onslaught would inspire men to recoil and defend themselves.

She had not brought Doom with her, but that was no matter. Instead, she sprang forward with a scream. As she expected, Uric was surprised, and he faltered in his own attack. The hesitation was all that she needed.

She hurled herself upon him, but kept her feet upon the deck. Uric was a big man, but he was clumsy from drink, and so he was not sharp enough to defend himself. He began falling backward, but that was not enough for Leroya.

With a grunt, she shoved him over the side of the longship. The cry which left his mouth was cut off by a loud splash.

"Maegor's Teats!" Fastulf sprang to his feet. Whatever he intended to do was a mystery, for he froze when two of Leroya's crewmen stepped between him and Leroya.

"Let him go," Leroya ordered. "I'll not have this fool drown. But go find Xalonyay. I won't abandon her to these men's courtesies." And with that, as she heard the other ironmen run to find Uric as he flailed in the water, she strode back towards the gangplank and descended from the longship.

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"What more did you expect?"

"Nothing else," Leroya replied. "I accepted this a long time ago. And besides, there is still fun to be had with such men."

"As you say," Baalun replied. He had already bid his farewell to Lartha that morning before she slipped back to her father's longship, and now he stood by the open porthole, gazing out at the snow which fell heavily upon land and water alike.

Leroya was lying on her bed, having dressed herself before Baalun came in. As Baalun went quiet, she followed his example and let her mind wander. Whatever storm that had brewed the night before had dulled to a distant rumble on some far horizon within herself.

After a silence, she turned to look at her brother. "Do you recall when Papa brought us to pay respects to Willem Wylde?"

"Some of it," Baalun replied curiously. "Why do you ask?"

"I've been thinking of those septons and septas, looking down their noses at us," Leroya replied. "Who were they to think so low of Mama and Papa? Or us? Who were we to them?"

Baalun shrugged. "Let them look," he replied. "But mayhaps this is why you ought not to reward them."

'Reward them?" Leroya sat upright. "What does that mean?"

Baalun flushed as he held up his open palms in token of peace. "I mean you should not lie with men who will judge you thusly."

Leroya waved a dismissive hand. "If these men will lie with me, it is they whose virtues are corrupt. As for me, I will do what I wish. I'll not change myself for their sake." She suddenly sniffed the air, and gave her brother a glance. "You ought to bathe."

"Later," Baalun replied before changing the subject back to his sister. "Do you think the ironborn will seek vengeance for what happened last night?"

Leroya laughed at that. "Uric will, but I doubt the others will be as stupid as him. If they have any sense between them, they'll make sure Uric doesn't get himself killed."

Baalun sighed. "Papa will be displeased when he learns of this."

"He need not learn of it," Leroya said quickly. "The ironborn were never going to be our allies. I will tell him what he needs to know."

Baalun frowned. "He will discover the truth when they vote against Vaella."

"Everyone is going to vote against Vaella," Leroya retorted. "You heard Miru." She had already spoken to her big sister more than once about Princess Jena's desire to put Vaella on the Iron Throne. Miru had spent more time with the girl and she was utterly sure that she was not fit for such a terrible fate as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Fine." Baalun sighed as he turned away. "I'm hungry."

"So am I," Leroya answered. She got up from her bed and made for the cabin door. She and Baalun made their way to the wheelhouses which were stationed just outside the docks.

Each sat by a window, looking out at the deserted streets. Only a few still ventured outside in the midst of the falling snow. A begging brother stood beneath a statue and prayed loudly for the winter to end.

Leroya hated such preachers. Self-righteous little worms, she thought viciously. The god and goddess never send us out to yammer at other folk. Not like every other bloody faith in this world.

An idea suddenly entered her head. She grinned excitedly at Baalun. "Do you think I could seduce the High Septon?"

Baalun did a double take as he stared at her. "Are you mad?"

"Come on," Leroya urged playfully. "Wouldn't that be a sight? Do you reckon he'd pray when he reached climax?"

Baalun shook his head. "I reckon he'd sooner pray whilst he has you burned for witchcraft!"

Leroya shrugged. "Fine, but what of the Grand Maester?" She had only seen him on brief occasions during her visit to King's Landing, but she had noticed several quick glances he'd thrown her way. She had been more amused by them than anything, but the more she thought of them now, the more she saw it as an opportunity.

"I reckon he has a bit of life left in him," she added.

"What of it?" Baalun asked incredulously.

Leroya was surprised by these protests. "Since when have you tried to be the reasonable one? How many times did you fuck Horik's daughter under his nose?"

"Aye, and that'll remain a secret," Baalun insisted. "Even if the old man does fall for your wiles, nobody could find out."

"Nobody need know," Leroya assured him. Well, maybe one begging brother or two. Who would believe them anyway?

"Roya, you cannot," Baalun protested. He didn't say 'should not'...

"Cannot? Is that a challenge?" Leroya grinned.

Baalun paused, then slowly folded his arms with a sigh. A reluctant grin stretched across his face. "Well, truth be told, I do wonder if you can actually do it."

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The following day, whilst the Great Council had assembled for the first day, she went to the rookery to await the Grand Maester's return.

She wore a linen tunic which she'd purchased in Braavos prior to her departure. It was dyed the same shade of purple which had always adorned Braavosi sails. Over her back, she wore one of the silken capes lined with feathers that she'd earned in the Temple of Love on Ebonhead. Prior to dressing, Leroya had also taken advantage of the baths in Maegor's Holdfast, complete with soaps and perfumes. If only Belakka could see me now.

Her younger sister had always been vain. When it came to the god and goddess of love, beauty, and fertility, Belakka had always been fixated on beauty rather than the other two. In particular, her own beauty. Leroya could certainly understand loving oneself, but Belakka worshiped herself, and she expected worship from others as well. It was why she was such an accomplished courtesan, after all. Leroya had always turned up her nose at such snobbery as was the practice of courtesans in Braavos. They were little better than exotic pets to those rich men and women. Belakka could play the harp and warble sweetly while showing off her plumage from inside a golden cage. Leroya had always thought it was a miserable way to live one's life.

Twice, she hesitated, and nearly walked away. But the thought had such a daring ring to it, and she had already thrown the gauntlet down before Baalun. And besides, what better triumph could there be in the battle between her gods and the Andals?

Eventually, she heard someone approach. She ducked behind a corner to observe them, only to be rewarded with the sight of Grand Maester Piato.

Truthfully, if she hadn't already had her purpose, she might still be tempted to have her way with this man anyway. Despite his advanced age, he was clearly in robust health, needing no cane to walk or stand straight. His neatly washed hair was mostly white, his beard was steel-grey, but his deep brown eyes were still bright and alert. He was also shorter than her, but so were more than half the men of Westeros.

She waited a moment longer for him to enter the rookery and settle into his work. Then, with careful casualness, she strolled in after him.

Piato was already feeding the ravens, much to their loud delight. He looked at her with some surprise, but then gave a polite bob of his head.

"Good day, Grand Maester," she began innocently. She'd wondered whether to feign ladylike manners, but she reckoned Piato would see through such a farce. He had seen her on several occasions, including when she'd nearly confronted Bloodraven in the Great Hall.

"And to you," Piato replied over the cawing of his birds. "How may I help you?"

"I have a letter," Leroya answered, holding up a sealed scroll. "My father asked me to send it, but he forgot to say which castle."

"I see," the Grand Maester mused. "Did he give the name of the recipient?"

"Ser Valmont Chatterley," Leroya lied smoothly.

Piato frowned and scratched his beard. "That name is unfamiliar to me," he confessed. "I must needs consult my records."

"By all means," Leroya stepped to the side to let him pass, then followed him to his chambers on the floor below.

When they approached his door, Piato turned around to look at her. There was a strange expression in his eyes, one which Leroya could not place. She kept her hands behind her back to appear less imposing. "Shall I wait out here?"

"Thank you," Piato murmured before going inside.

A lifetime at sea had taught Leroya the virtue of patience. She stood some distance from the door and quietly hummed a tune. As she did so, she casually loosened the laces on the top of her tunic, then positioned her braid so that it rested atop the laces.

Eventually, the Grand Maester reemerged, looking disappointed. "I am sorry, but I could find no record of such a name."

"Perhaps I misremembered it," Leroya sighed. "I'll have to speak with my father again."

"Forgive me," Piato interjected, "but is your father Lord Titus Dondarrion?"

"The very same." Leroya smiled. "Do you know him?"

"Not well, sadly," Piato answered. "I do know of his reputation."

Which one? "You honour him, Grand Maester," Leroya bobbed her head again.

"Most kind of you to assume the best of me," Piato quipped, even as the corners of his mouth turned upward for the first time.

Leroya giggled in earnest. She hadn't expected self-effacing charm from a Grand Maester.

"Is this your first visit to King's Landing?" He asked her.

"My first to the castle," she clarified. "I've been here several times as a captain, and my business was limited to the docks."

"Mayhaps that was wise," Piato mused as his face fell again. "This castle can be a perilous place."

"So I've heard," Leroya affirmed. "But surely a man such as you need not fear any dangers?"

"A man such as I? I don't understand your meaning."

"I mean a man of such holy vows as yourself. Surely the gods would look kindly upon you."

"One would pray that were so." Piato's eyes wandered upwards for a moment before turning back to her. "Does that mean you worship the Seven?" He sounded surprised.

"I do not, but I must admit, they have always fascinated me."

"Have they?"

"Indeed," Leroya affirmed. "There seem to be so many unanswered questions. I hoped that a revered man such as yourself might be able to assist me?"

"You flatter me," Piato protested.

"Is that so bad?" Leroya teased. She brushed her braid off her shoulder, drawing attention to it to test Piato's resolve. Sure enough, his eyes flicked down to the loosened laces of her tunic, which allowed him a much better view of her breasts.

"Tell me, Grand Maester," she asked in that same innocent tone, "do you ever suppose the Mother and the Father lie together?"

Piato blinked in surprise. "I don't know why they shouldn't," he replied quietly. "The Mother and the Father are bound together in holy matrimony, after all."

Leroya grinned playfully. "Do you think they enjoy it when they lie together?"

The Grand Maester frowned. "You have a wicked sense of humour, young lady."

"Are you saying there's no answer?"

Piato sighed and shook his head. "I ought to chastise you for testing an old man's holy vows."

"You can chastise me in my cabin if you wish," Leroya suggested softly. "It's been a long time since I was spanked properly."

"Oh gods... you devil," Piato gasped as she suddenly stepped forward. As he looked around in fear, she grinned and knelt before him, as a worshiper of the Seven might do in his presence. She took one of his hands and drew it to her, kissing the iron ring on his finger, feigning respect for his faith.

Piato stared down at her in amazement. "Have you no shame?"

"Meet me on my ship and find out," whispered Leroya. As she stood up, she pressed his hand to her bosom. He pulled his hand back, but for the briefest of moments she felt his fingers press against her tunic. It was an exhilarating sensation.

The Grand Maester did not say anything for a moment. When he did speak again, he sounded hoarser than before. "I'm truly not sure what I did to deserve this."

Leroya wasn't sure how he meant that, until he approached her and spoke softer than before. "I have duties to attend, but I believe I can spare time for your salvation tonight after supper."

She was surprised by that tone of voice; she recognised it well, and she very much enjoyed hearing it. "My thanks, Grand Maester," she cooed in a low voice. "I'll await you on the Black Bolt."

And with that, she strolled off, unable to keep a broad, triumphant grin from spreading across her face. She nearly burst out laughing at the sight of every septa, septon, and maester that she passed on her way out of the Red Keep.